


Noble in Any But Name

by jusrecht



Category: Suikoden V
Genre: Alternate Reality, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 08:58:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2061987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jusrecht/pseuds/jusrecht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Belcoot won the Sacred Games? Watch him struggle in the Falenan court.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Noble in Any But Name

**Author's Note:**

> This fic ignores canon story right after the end of Sacred Games.

  
Three months are hardly enough to prepare him for this, Belcoot thinks nervously. In fact, even three years may not still be enough, considering the range of field he must cover in that span of time.  
  
Unfortunately, he has very little say on the matter.  
  
He fidgets in his clothes, rich with colours, silky smooth on his skin that had long since been used to coarse leather and plain cotton. Thick, embroidered gloves now hide the roughness of his hands, cover the lesions stippling his knuckles from wielding a sword almost twice his weight. Draped across his shoulders is a cape of deep forest green, heavy velvet that shimmers like waterfall in the vibrant colour of leaves flourishing in summer.  
  
They all spell the same word to him: obligation.  
  
His Majesty Ferid came to see him personally after the first week of Belcoot’s grooming to be a suitable fiancé of the Crown Princess. _There will come a day,_ he said earnestly, his lively manner for once subdued into quiet sympathy, _when it will no longer be a burden._  
  
They’ll become a part of you, just as the radiant Falenan sun and the swift current of the Feitas will shape your soul, and redefine who you are.  
  
Belcoot heaves a deep breath. When he submitted his name to participate in the Sacred Games, he only had the vaguest idea of what would come next should he win. It certainly would not be an easy feat to rule a queendom as vast and strategically-situated as Falena – to assist his wife in any way he can, at any cost. As he went through his two-month education, he began to realise that he lacked the necessary knowledge, lacked the influence of a noble bloodline, lacked so much value from both political and military point of view that not to question his own decision was impossible.  
  
He had his chance to withdraw, but he didn’t.  
  
“And they say you can’t be a part of the royalties.”  
  
Belcoot smiles awkwardly as Prince Freyjadour Falena enters the waiting room, for once without Lyon’s shadow on his heels. His full party regalia give him a more dignified air that he usually forfeits in less formal occasions, particularly in his company, but his smile retains its familiar warmth.  
  
“Are you ready?” he asks, a twinkle in his eyes. Belcoot sighs and resigns himself to fate.  
  
“As ready as I shall ever be.”  
  
Freyjadour hides a grin at his attempt of formal speech. Belcoot himself smothers a helpless laugh as they walk side by side toward the banquet chamber where the engagement party is held. This will be a disaster, he just knows it.  
  
Princess Lymsleia notices their arrival and tenses. Her eyes brighten for a moment at the sight of her older brother, but look away just as quickly when they catch his eyes. Belcoot hides his nervousness as best as he can as he pays respect to the Queen and Princess. He pretends not to notice the small, forced smile stretched across her faintly painted lips in answer to his polite bow.  
  
He cannot keep it up for long. Pretence is a skill he lags behind in the most – _essential,_ Sir Kyle told him once. Soon, he is stealing glances at her, hopes and trepidations shouting against each other, but each attempt only serves to leave him even more dispirited than before.  
  
She is only shy, Belcoot tries desperately to convince himself – this whole arrangement is difficult enough as it is, and he doesn’t think he can bear the additional burden of her not liking him. They have never spoken to each other save for the sake of formalities, exchanged correctly under the close watch of an entire audience. There will be time.  
  
Meanwhile, he tries not to think about Marina, or her easy smiles, or the tenderness of her touches when she helps him to bed.  
  
Freyjadour keeps close to his side, a hand on his shoulder to remind him of his place. Noblemen and –women mill about them, a blur of colours and smiling faces, too many names to remember. Lord Barrows has plenty to say, as does his equally flamboyant son, and the only reason why Belcoot can stand his ground with a smile and listen is the knowledge that he is being tested. The Queen watches him, coolly, as indifferent as the sun, and he knows better than to betray the trust put on his shoulders.  
  
His greatest trial comes in a flurry of red coat and dark-blue cape. Gizel Godwin arrives nearly half-an-hour late, armed with an unassailable explanation as he presents a heartfelt apology to the Queen and extends his congratulation to the Princess. Lymsleia looks small sitting on her throne, before his overwhelming presence. Her responding smile is stiff, defensive as Gizel kneels and kisses the back of her hand, only the tip of his fingers touching hers.  
  
He has what it takes to be a king, Belcoot cannot stop the thought from looming over him, a dark cloud that carries the truth. To be the consort of a queen. To be what _he_ cannot.  
  
Gizel approaches him next. There are too many eyes on them both, comparing one to the other. He can hear the guests murmuring, in disapproval and confusion both – _why, how is it possible, surely this is madness._ One only has to take _one_ glance at them both to know who is more suitable to rule their beloved queendom with the Princess.  
  
Belcoot swallows. Freyjadour has left his side by now, removed his protection to assume the role of a spectator, like everyone else. This is a battle he must win by himself.  
  
“If I may offer my congratulation, Sir Belcoot,” Gizel begins, his politeness as subtle as a glint of a knife in the moonlight. Belcoot tries not to wince at the title added to his name. He bows awkwardly in return, just slightly – _show respect, but do not undermine your honour._  
  
“And I my thank you, Sir Gizel,” he responds, hoping that he is juggling the correct words.  
  
Gizel’s smile remains unreadable. “I believe my gladiator Childerich had the honour to contend against you in the final.”  
  
“Yes,” Belcoot nods, not quite knowing what else to say. The other man’s princely manner and bearing makes him feel like a lowly peasant – which, he reflects with a sinking heart, isn’t very far from the truth.  
  
“The Queen must be very pleased,” Gizel continues, “to welcome such a capable swordsman into the Royal Family. Princess Lymsleia’s safety will indeed be in a good hand.”  
  
 _That,_ he realises, is an insult. Belcoot straightens his back on reflex, his stance ready. “It is a privilege to serve Her Majesty and the Royal Family,” he says stiffly, his hands fisted on his side. There is little use for his sword in the Queen’s court, but he finds himself resisting the urge to draw it and challenge this impudent man.  
  
Gizel smiles, smooth and dark like honey. “Yes, it is,” he says, inclining his head slightly. “I look forward to our interaction in the future, Sir Belcoot.”  
  
He blinks as the young Godwin retreats with a bow. Music floats above the static hum of the other guests’ whispers, and he allows himself a deep sigh. At least it is over.  
  
“Well, that wasn’t too bad for a beginner,” Freyjadour says, suddenly back at his side. Belcoot laughs, a little uncomfortable, but the weight is lifted slowly from his heart when he notices Commander Ferid’s smile.  
  
 _You will strive to be worthy of your queen and your people._  
  
He straightens up, determination in his eyes as a new round of dance begins. As if instinctively aware of his plan, Freyjadour leaves with a pat on his back and goes in search of Sir Georg. Belcoot steels himself as he walks the red carpet, up to where the Princess is sitting with a guarded expression, silently watching his approach.  
  
“Your Highness,” he says, kneeling on one knee, “will you do me the honour of accompanying me in this dance?”  
  
Lymsleia looks more aghast than astonished at his offer. She bites her lips, glancing at her mother for support, advice, decision, Belcoot cannot quite tell. The Queen’s expression is somewhere between surprised and amused, but she says nothing, her eyes trained on his face, taking notes of every flickering emotion.  
  
“I– I do not think...” Lymsleia pauses, scrambling for words she hasn’t prepared in advance. “...but if Mother permits, of course I...”  
  
Belcoot waits as she looks around helplessly, at her father, and then her brother. It is at this point that the Queen decides to intervene. “Tonight is your engagement party, Lymsleia,” she says calmly, her smile dispelling any impression of indifference her earlier silence may have caused. “Surely you do not plan to refuse your betrothed in this joyful occasion?”  
  
Her cheeks colour slightly at the gentle reprimand, but Lymsleia is a princess through and through. She rises from her throne, her gown rustling gently with each movement, and puts her small hand on his offered palm. “It will be my pleasure, Sir Belcoot,” she says firmly.  
  
Her height barely reaches his chest, but she accepts his offer as one does a challenge. Belcoot grins then, startling her out of her stiffness for a moment. Lymsleia huffs, chin raised high, for even though she does not stand as tall as he, her pride does.  
  
Their dance, Belcoot thinks, is a parody of its elegant true form, but the Princess can barely contain her giggle when she trips his feet yet again, her eyes for once laughing with him.  
  
At least, it is a beginning.  
  
 ** _End_**  
  



End file.
